Chelsie Shorts
by RhondaStar
Summary: This started as a Chelsie challenge - now it's a place to house short stories about this lovely pair
1. Chapter 1

Joining **Theoofoof** and having a go at the 52 weeks of Chelsie challenge - I don't usually do drabbles as I get carried and drawn into telling the story so writing something around 500 words _is_ a challenge for me!

I don't know how my year will pan out so who knows if i'll meet the challenge, but giving it a go for my Chelsie love.

* * *

 **A New Beginning**

Try as he might he can't shake the nervous tension that has seen fit to burrow down and form roots in the depths of his stomach. A few times that morning he's rushed to the lavatory, quite certain he was ill and his stomach would soon rid itself of its contents.

But no, nothing more than a case of the butterflies, is what his mother would have said. Which has always struck him as something of a strange notion really, butterflies in one's stomach; as a child he'd often pictured the little blighters racing around, leapfrogging about his innards.

Still, he was a man now, an old man he'd thought, as he'd taken a long look at himself in the mirror before bed. In just his pyjamas he'd wondered what Elsie would see when she first saw him like this. Not Carson anymore. Not the butler. Just Charles. Charlie, maybe, in time. That thought had unnerved him. Not that he thought her shallow, quite the opposite, she was as sturdy and dependable as they came, he just wondered. He wouldn't have his uniform to hide behind, a waistcoat to tug on, a job to do.

There was a time he'd thought that was all he'd ever have. And that was fine. It was all he needed. It was all he'd ever wanted, really, to do a good job in a fine house for an upstanding family. It had surprised him, then, when he'd suddenly found he was beginning to long for more. And in his later years, at his time of life. People would laugh. He'd pondered that momentarily.

But then she'd been there, reaching for his hand, leading him forward – gently, gently – just as she always had. How easily she could lead him. She was so adept at it. She led them all. As much as he might like to bluster and claim to 'be their leader', she was the one, the strength, the backbone. How many times did he glance her way when lost for words? How many times had he found his way with just a look from her?

He stands, hands clasped together as he moves to the altar, a few short steps to the unknown. He has no idea if he will make a good husband. He hopes to. He intends to. He wants to be all that he can be for her, to her. To love, honour and cherish just as the good book states.

But the role of husband… It's a word he never thought would be part of his vernacular, not when used in relation to himself. And it's the first time in many years he's been unsure. He told her once he felt that the ground was shaking beneath him, but she'd steadied him, as she always did.

Now, as he turns to greet her coming down the aisle, the very air is shaking. She is beautiful. Breathtakingly so. And her eyes. And her smile. She is proud yet nervous. Glancing to the assembled guests as she walks, and then to him...

The butterflies settle, finding a spot to rest. And the roots that have taken hold are not of nerves, but of life, but of love. For she is the root of it all – but then she always has been.


	2. Chapter 2

_I have clear memories of the days before my Grandfather died of his frozen eyes, the same with my aunt - a kind of lost look, as if the life had already gone and only the body remained - it is an image that has never left me._

* * *

 **A story about rising to a challenge**

She's never shied away from hard work, it's been the cornerstone of her life. She's carried the weight of it on her back since she could walk – toddling about the kitchen helping her mother, following her Da to the hen house to cradle eggs in her tiny palm – precious as gold during colder months.

There are days, though, when she wants to rest.

She'd imagined walking with him, in the spring when the daffodils peeked through, yellow against the dying frost. Earlier, perhaps, when snowdrops dotted hedgerows. In the summer, lifting her skirts and climbing into thorny bushes to pick blackberries – their fingers sticky and oozing with the glut of their hoard. She'd bake a crumble, crookedly label jars of jam and store them at the back of the cupboard. He'd dig in their small garden, the patch of land he'd staked as his own, and they'd have vegetables year round.

But now, he sits and watches as she does it.

Eight months ago her heart almost stopped. It had been July, hot, impossibly so, and she'd stood too quickly, the blood-rush to her brain made her dizzy and she'd leant down on the spade and closed her eyes. When she'd recovered, wiped her brow with the back of her hand and turned to look at him in his chair, his gaze had been frozen.

She thought him dead.

For terrible seconds she was rooted to the spot. This was it. He was gone. And she'd be alone. Mrs. Hughes again.

A thick tongue had darted out over dry lips, eyes blinked, heart pumped blood. Then she moved, let the spade drop with a thud onto the heads of leeks. She'd been tentative. Terrified.

"Charles…?" Barely a whisper, her mouth so dry he could taste the dirt upon it. "Charlie?" A shaking hand to his shoulder, he was warm, and his head moved, hat fell to the floor, and she'd breathed.

She put his hat on, took his hand, helped him up. "Time for a little nap, I think." And she'd put him to bed; he'd slept for hours and she'd gardened and cried in the kitchen over the loss of her husband.

He did that often now – this great man – frozen, gazing. There were lucid moments where he came back and made her laugh with his sharp comments or cutting snipes. At Christmas he'd caught her singing carols as she made Mince Pies and he sat in his old chair and joined in and it was lovely. She'd cried in church, not something she would ever do, holding his hand as the congregation sang out on Christmas morn, and he'd trembled in her fingers.

Long ago, when it had first started, they'd made love and his hands had trembled so much he couldn't touch her. She'd held them in hers, guided his fingers to her body, his palm over the curve of her breast. Their mouths finding the other's in the dark. And she'd thought ' _this is love,_ ' it felt like love.

But no. This was love…

Carrying the weight of this giant man as she helped him into the tub, washing him as he grumbled about things that were no longer his concern – maids, Barrow, the price of train fares.

Feeding him when he had no will to eat or means to lift the spoon to his mouth.

Reading to him come nightfall by the fire, page after page, book after book.

Scarce times she lets her mind dwell on the unfairness of it all. The short time they've had together – years, not decades, not like this, not like they were, in love and happy carefree. And oh goodness, she did feel loved by him.

Now she catches his eye at times and he's wondering who she is.

But there's little point in dwelling on the way life unfurls. It is what it is and she is ever practical.

Taking the tray to the table she pours his tea, makes it how he likes it, she's done it a hundred years.

She lays shortbread on the saucer, slides it across the table to him, and his fingers twitch, itching for hers.

She glances up – housekeeper, wife, lover, nursemaid – catches the light in his eyes as he watches her.

"Elsie."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 - Retelling of a fairy tale**

Early winter and the first snow fell. Blistering. White upon white. Birds settled high in trees, puffed up against the ice, lakes froze, children dreamed of skating.

Elsie May Hughes stepped out of the back door in new boots laced over the ankle. Good leather boots for Christmas, a precious gift, her only gift save for a few pencils and some paper to draw upon. Her heel slipped as she took her first step, crunching down into fresh snow

With a hand firmly round the basket she carried, she set off, her balance gained. It was early morn and the lane was still, silent. Her breath dancing out upon the air, the only real sign of life, though she scanned the hedgerows for animals seeking shelter.

There was no day off for her. Perhaps she'd get to play with the village children later in the day, once she'd done her tasks, but she didn't dare to hope.

Above her branches, weighed with the snow, shook in the breeze and she looked up as the flakes fell – drifting to meet her skin, white upon white. Elsie was as pale as the winter morning, even more so with her dark hair, braided tightly and hidden beneath her cap.

She stared at a bird, a black bird watching her, its mouth open but silent, it's eyes frozen. A bump in the lane tripped her and she wobbled for a second, gripping the basket tighter to prevent it dropping.

"Ow!" She snaps at the bite of a splinter from the handle.

She pulls off a glove. Instinctively she sucks on her finger and watches as the bubble of thick red forms on the tip. She plays with it, tilting her finger to the side and watching as the liquid slid halfway down her finger before making it's descent to the ground.

A splash of red upon the snow.

She sets off again, tucking her injured finger into her pocket and hoping for more snow. Snow that will climb to her waist so she can stay home.

The school is closed and the village square deserted. It is a long walk from the farm to town but she has done it in half the time, despite the weather, and she cannot understand how.

The silence brings with it it's own eeriness and she slows as she reaches the shop. The windows are dark and beyond she can see no life.

Tiptoeing to the back she stalls when she hears a voice: harsh, brittle. It is the shopkeeper. She is tall and thin and all in black and Elsie is scared of her. Has been all her life.

Finding fortitude in the bite of her lip she makes her way around, holding her basket out in front.

"Elsie. I didn't think to see you today."

"Ma sent the eggs, and cheese too. Not much."

"Hardly likely to be."

The basket is taken from her and Elsie shuffles from one new boot to the other as she waits outside. Inside she can hear the thrum of a man singing, a baritone, the rumble of it seems to catch her blood.

"There. I've put the money inside. Mind how you go on the return."

"I will Mrs. Hilde."

"And a little something for you too, for your efforts."

Elsie is surprised by the woman's thoughtfulness, she has only ever known her to be sharp and commanding, and sets off back around the side of the shop.

She is a child and impatient and she pushes back the cloth in her basket to see a red apple sitting there.

Seized by delight she snatches at it, lifts it to her mouth and prepares to bite. _How did Mrs. Hilde come by red apples in the depths of winter?_ Elsie picks the apples in the next farm over every year and she's never tasted a red one.

She turns back, thrusting the tempting fruit ahead of her. She is always ready to question.

In the yard behind the shop Mrs. Hilde is beating the snow from the door. Elsie watches as she smiles, a secret smile, quickly hidden when Mr. Hilde comes out behind her and lifts up the lid of the storage box. He is a foreboding man; Elsie has often imagined him turning into a bear.

"You must stop singing," his wife tells him as he takes out logs for the fire.

"And why must I?"

Elsie bends, curls in upon herself, watches with sharp eyes.

"I can sing to my beautiful wife on a morning such as this."

He touches her arm, kisses her forehead, and continues inside, two logs beneath his arm.

Mrs. Hilde continues to beat the snow to form a path.

Elsie runs, sliding through the square. The clock strikes 8:00 and she will be late back for breakfast and there's to be thick porridge and tea.

In the back lane she finds her mind a muddle of what she has seen. Mrs. Hilde never smiles. She has no children and she is biting and severe. At least, that's how she has appeared for the past eleven years of Elsie's life. Mr. Hilde is quiet and grumbles often about the size of the eggs. The two do not appear like the young couples Elsie has seen at dances, holding hands and stealing kisses that used to make the young girl giggle, now she finds she blushes.

She stops. Turns the uneaten apple over in her hand pondering. In the distance is the rail line used for transporting coal. She wonders often now where the line leads, where it could take her, what she might be, and she lifts her hand and throws the apple with as much strength as she can muster.

It shatters upon a tree, unseen by the eye of the young girl racing home through the snow.


	4. Chapter 4

_Found this one a bit harder - the obvious thing to me was to go for Mary, Edith & Sybil but I was really struggling to write that. Then this idea popped into my head and wrote itself in 30 minutes. So, figured I'd go with it._

* * *

 **A Story about Three Siblings**

It is raining by mid-afternoon, incessant and heavy. The sky had forewarned of it, darkening around two and shadowing over where Elsie was working the garden. With difficultly, she'd packed up her tools, carried the small basket of onions into the house and set them down on the side to go into the pie she was making later.

The kitchen was filled with the heavenly scent of fresh bread and upon the table stood her cooling loaves. As a child herself, it had never occurred to her that one day she might bake or cook, it wasn't something she'd been particularly fond of or interested in, preferring instead to race through fields of corn and splash about in the river searching for tadpoles.

Now she was adept at it. And multitasking too. But then mothers always are.

Stretching her back she stood for a moment, hands on hips, watching the rain, biting down on her lip and wondering where her three were. Out in the rain, catching colds and making her yet more work.

When she heard the dull thud of footsteps and their yells of delight she threw open the back door, a smile forming as she watched them race towards her down the path.

"Ma, Charlie fell in the river," the eldest girl laughed.

"Oh Laura, I told you to keep them safe."

"They are, oh it smells nice in here. Can we have some bread?"

"When you're dry."

Elsie watched as they drilled past her and into the kitchen: Laura, Mary and Charlie. Little Charlie.

She patted his sopping head, "Oh my boy, look at you, what will your father say?"

"Don't tell him, Ma, please. He'll chide me for ruining my shoes."

Elsie glanced down at the brown brogues, the leather of which now resembled a worn-out dishcloth.

"Best get you dry then," she looked to her son's face, he was only seven and the cutest thing, all chubby cheeks and floppy, thick hair. There were signs though; he was changing, his baby-face beginning to resemble his father's.

He smiled, pressing himself into her apron, "Thank you, Mummy."

"Laura," Elsie said, squeezing her son's shoulder, "get them upstairs and changed, into dry clothes and put the wet things in the tub for me to deal with. I'll make some tea; your father will be home soon for the afternoon break. We'll have bread and jam."

"Strawberry?" Mary asked, chewing on the end of one of her long plaits.

"Yes darling, of course."

The three siblings raced upstairs together; Elsie could hear their squabbling and giggling as she set about boiling the water for tea.

Wearily she moved to the table, sliced bread, laid out thick slices on a plate in the centre of the table. They ate so much, and Charles, she could hardly keep up with them. And they didn't have a huge amount of money to spare, not since she'd fallen pregnant with Laura and given up work. It hadn't been planned, in fact it was largely frowned upon – their falling in love. But the heart can't help what it wants and almost as soon as she'd left Scotland and arrived at Downton aged only 19 she'd fallen for the great bumbling footman with the booming voice.

He'd danced around her for a couple of years, feigning disinterest at times, at others staring at her longingly. When she'd bravely taken his hand one Christmas Eve and suggested they dance that had been that, they didn't even have to speak of it. They were inseparable. Somehow Charles had convinced Lady Grantham neither of their work would suffer (he was, after all, in line to the be the next butler), and they'd married quietly and got on with life. Though with the exception of the neat little cottage in which they now resided.

The problem had come when they'd realised she was pregnant. It wasn't a problem really; it was a delight, an utter delight. But unexpected, unplanned, and Charles had panicked so over it all. And then Laura had been there and he'd fallen in love all over again.

Mary came just over a year later, named after his favourite at the Abbey, then there'd been a break. A few years had passed before she realised she was pregnant again and finally she had given Charles a son. A wonderful, loving, bright little boy who everyone in the household doted upon.

"You're daydreaming," Charles said, as he shook the rain from his coat and hung his hat by the door.

"Hello, you're early."

He kissed the back of her head; "I walked quickly in the rain. Where are they?"

"Rinsing their hands for tea. Will you light the fire? I have things to dry."

"Of course."

He bent, rolled up his shirtsleeves and she wobbled slightly as she stood up from the table a little too quickly.

"Ma?" Mary asked from the foot of the stairs, "Are you alright?"

"Yes sweetheart, perfectly."

Charles glanced over his shoulder, noting the paleness of his wife's face, "Sit down, Elsie, we'll do it."

Mary and Laura fetched the tea things to the table and Elsie watched on proudly, they were growing into fine young girls at ten and eleven.

"Daddy, what do you want?" Mary asked as they all sat at the table, piling homemade jam onto their bread.

"I hope for quiet." He said grandly.

The girls giggled.

"Ma, you're not hungry?" Charlie asked, swinging his legs beneath the table.

Outside the thunder rumbled and he shifted imperceptibly closer to his mother.

"Yes, I'll have some. Could you pass me some bread, darling?"

The boy did as requested and Elsie stretched across the table reaching for the butter, gasping as a sharp kick hit her in the ribs.

All four looked over to her, faces concerned.

"Just reminding me it's still here," she said, her hand sliding over her swollen belly.

* * *

Charles woke up sharply. Jerking forward he sat up in bed, blinking into the darkness.

"Charlie?" Elsie whispered, her voice groggy.

He was almost startled by her presence and he turned to look down at her.

"Whatever's wrong?"

"Nothing," he glanced to the bedroom window as the distant roll of thunder filled the air.

"Awful night," he said.

She nodded, reaching up to touch his back and bidding him to lie back down with her.

"Oddest dream," he said, melting into the pillow, feeling Elsie tuck the sheets back over him.

"How so?"

"I dreamt… we were married."

"We are."

"For a long time. And children too, two girls and a boy."

"Oh…?" She said, startled by the admission.

"We lived here." He added more gently.

"It would be cramped."

"Perhaps." He didn't want to let go of the happiness of the dream, yet the edges of it were already slipping from his mind.

"There was so much love in the house."

"There _is_ so much love here." She pushed herself up and kissed his cheek, "Now, go back to sleep."

"Yes Mrs. Carson."

Elsie lay down beside him and he moved his arm so she could nuzzle against him, her head coming to rest on his chest. He slid his hand down to her hip, rested it there, listened to her breathing alter as she drifted into sleep.

 _Three siblings… and a fourth on the way?_

He'd never considered children, not even when he was young. Funny how your mind worked when you were asleep. Funny what you dreamt of.

He let his hand fall forward to her stomach, remembering how his heart felt at the sight of her heavy with his child.


	5. Chapter 5

**5\. A Story Set in London**

 _ **Summer 1926**_

He hasn't slept properly since they re-located for the season. When he was young it didn't bother him, he could easily move from place-to-place, sleep anywhere he rested his bones. But he's become a man of habit. He likes his bed, he still thinks of it as his _new_ bed, despite the year or so he's been in it. His wonderful, comfortable large bed in his lovely sun-kissed bedroom with his beautiful wife.

Best not to think on her.

He isn't meant to be there really, it isn't his job anymore, but he wants things to run as smoothly as the Crawleys do, and like it or not just his presence helps things run smoothly. Give Thomas his credit though, he's doing well, it may pain Charles to admit it, and he'd never do so publicly, but he's confided in Elsie that he's pleased with the way Mr Barrow has stepped up to the role. Matured, somehow. Still sharp at times, that perhaps will never dull around the edges, but he's smart and quick and efficient – traits Charles can't help but admire.

It is after ten and Charles is feeling anxious, he checks his pocket watch for perhaps the sixth time as he parades the corridor. It's warm today, or gearing up to be, and already it's stifling by the kitchens. And he can't rid himself of this feeling in his chest. Like his heart is beating too fast, like his lungs can't keep up, like his skin is prickly with fire, his mind buzzing…

Elsie.

How he's missed her. It's never been like this before. Even the previous summer when they were but newlyweds. He knows her now, all of her, so very well. In fact he often thinks they are so close now they are but one person. And he misses her. He misses being in their lounge at night with a sherry and the back door open to let in the summer breeze. Waking in their bed with her beside him, the birds bringing the morning to life with their song. How she sings when she prepares dinner, hums as she fixes her hair first thing in the morning.

His wife. His Elsie.

Some of his thoughts of late have been downright indecent. Now he knows. He wakes in the night – hence his tiredness – finds himself in a melancholy state as he dwells on the half-empty bed. He thinks he smells her when he turns over, though she's never touched these pillows. He thinks he hears her voice sometimes as he turns down the corridor and passes the housekeeper's parlour.

It is quite ridiculous that a man of his age should behave in such a way. Like a young upstart in love. And he can't help but simultaneously chastise himself whilst indulging the images of her in his mind.

"Mr. Carson," One of the young footmen interrupts his thoughts, coming down the stairs with two bags in hand, "The car is here."

He finds the thread in his heart pull tight, and he steps to the foot of the stairs and grips the handrail for a moment to steady himself.

"Very good."

There is bustling in the kitchen, the sound of happy voices, Mrs. Patmore's unmistakeable tone, Daisy's not far behind. This will be a busy week, and he knows he needs to sleep to prepare for it.

He remains in the hall, listening to the barked orders and complaints about the way things have been organised, and it makes him smile, though he hides it away. When he's home he misses this. When he's at work he misses his long, free days.

Footsteps. Heels on the flagstone floor. A fragrance. The shadow of a shape he recognises precedes the person down the hall.

She stops, tilts her head slightly, allows a small smile as she takes in his appearance by the foot of the stairs.

"Hello," she says gently.

His heart stops.

"Hello…" he wants to add 'my darling' but stops himself, it is still busy downstairs. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

She purses her lips, "Are you going to help your wife?" She asks, indicating her bag.

He shakes his head, "Sorry," he takes the bag, "I can take it up."

He feels her hand touch his, quickly, fleetingly, "Show me where our room is, perhaps?" She says, and there's a look in her eyes he recognises and he wants to press her against him and lose himself in her kiss.

"Missed you," he whispers.

She smiles at that, wrinkles her nose, "Which floor?"

"This way, Mrs. Carson."


End file.
